Oh, My Memories
by Raspberries-Vanilla
Summary: Sometimes incidents occur that leave us to our thoughts, it might not be the wisest decision but might just be the best thing for you.


_Everyone writes Alfred has having fifty children, or pseudo-children, ie: the states. This is a more interesting twist on that. Enjoy!_

_I own nothing, absolutely nothing mentioned in this story_

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><p>Alfred has a hidden room within his small estate on the outskirts of Washington DC. The first floor parlor room has a bookshelf that opens with the pull of a tattered book, exposing a narrow staircase leading to a private office with various paintings showcasing a different person and a few time periods.<p>

No one really knew about the room, with the exception of six other people. Alfred F. Jones kept it private for a reason. He came there when everything became so loud and the need for escape grew. Too much arguing, having to explain the decisions the President made, keep up trade, peace, and humanitarian agreements, and to force down the memories when the walls were breaking down inside his head.

It was definitely one of those nights, Earlier; Arthur had said something about colonies and some unkind words. Everyone blamed it on Francis for not fucking Arthur before a meeting and letting him a few gin and tonics during the meeting. In a twist of surprise to everyone else, Lars literally stomped over to Arthur and shoved him on his ass, ranting to drop the subject or else. Alfred would forever be grateful for the little interference. Arthur did apologize privately after the meeting and he accepted it but would be giving Arthur a cold shoulder for a while.

Alfred had flown back to the States after the meeting, claiming that he was needed in the Capital. Mathias drove him to the airport, and Matthew agreed to relay any and all information.

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><p>Once he arrived stateside, he made his way to his home and bunkered himself in the private room, losing himself to the paintings and the memories.<p>

He was the eldest of them all, the survivor. He remembered the birth of the colonies, New France, New Spain, New Sweden, New Netherlands, and Roanoke. Each of them had a portrait, he hand painted them during his isolation as a British colony, a mere teenager of sorts. Each one had faded before reaching the age of ten, each of them looking like a child version of their parent colony. France and Roanoke were little girls while the rest were boys. Years later, he felt his body change and he accepted the colonies, all thirteen of them.

He claimed them as his siblings, but knew deep down that they were his children in a sense.

He remembers watching Delaware, Pennsylvania, the twins New York and New Jersey, Connecticut, South Carolina, and Massachusetts all rough house with each other. While Georgia, North Carolina, Rhode Island, New Hampshire, and Virginia showed off their skill in stitching and horse riding. Alfred still has the scars on his body from when they faded away, after each signed the Declaration declaring their Independence from Arthur and that damned King.

Once again, the moment each colony signed the paper, he began their portraits. Seventeen hand painted portraits lined the wall, each with a sad smile on their faces while their eyes held utter happiness. Alfred prayed every night that he wouldn't have to go through it again, it broke him to pieces when he grew to love them and than watch them fade away. He felt his hands clench, his nails pressing into his palm as he remembered them.

And those feelings grew more intense when his government and President, and his people in fought wars, gaining territory after territory after territory. He watched them develop into their individual states, and took snapshots of them to create more hand portraits. Every single state had a portrait, he painted when he gained a new scar on his body. Alfred needed to remember each and every face, everything; he had to make sure he remembered to do his best as their brother, their father, their representation.

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><p>The United States of America was made up of fifty states; each of them left their mark on the state, and him. For Alfred, it was fifty scars and five birthmarks, and for his citizens, the history of their states. Smiling, he looked at each one and slowly stepped away, closing his eyes and headed over to his desk. His glass was chilled, with two ice cubes tossed into a jack and coke. Papers were calling his name, emails to be answered, and some music to be listened too.<p> 


End file.
